


detritivore

by emilywolf



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Gross, theres a pretty viscerally described dead elk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 10:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilywolf/pseuds/emilywolf
Summary: Evan finds an elk. Connor is shown an elk. Evan tells a story about bones.





	detritivore

**Author's Note:**

> this was a vent fic initially but i finished it into some character stuff to get it out of my drafts

The elk is in the middle of the path.

Evan’s staring at it. It’s probably a second or third year elk, eight pointer, no obvious cause of death. It’s clearly been there for a while-- the innards are mostly gone, probably ripped out by bears or vultures, there’s faint wiggling under the skin, and bits of fur are scattered all around it. The cloying smell of rot coming from it is what lead him here.

He thinks it might have been injured, hobbled around for a bit then finally succumbed here. The herds don’t frequent this area often, and he can’t imagine it keeling over and dying suddenly from illness in the middle of the path.

Animals go into bushes, go into the grasses, go into the brambles. They go into the thicket when they know they’re going to die.

He breathes out through his nose, in through his mouth. He knows it’s just his anxiety but he can’t swallow when he thinks of the rot going into his lungs, making him decay from the inside out, and he decides to bear breathing through his nose. The smell of rot is moist and sickly sweet. It’d almost be intoxicating, if it weren’t so overpowering.

When he approaches it, waves of flies buzz off it. He’s not too bothered. He’s been working as a park ranger long enough that flies hardly register to him, when it comes to being bothered by them. Evan shudders when he sees their children, though. Maggots. He’s never been good with maggots.

They fester. He can see the little white things thrashing and writhing where the skin is ripped and muscle shows, spilling out, like grains of rice falling out of an overfull container. 

It’s probably his mom’s influence. She’s told him a few horror stories from the hospital. Like the man who was brought in by his day nurse, who complained of a smell coming from his bandaging. His mom had been the one to unwrap his leg, find a writhing mass of maggots and pieces of rotting flesh underneath. His mom had had to wash out the maggots, scrape out the eggs, wash and rinse and wash and rinse until there wasn’t a single maggot left.

He doesn’t like maggots.

It’s a buck elk, though, so he doesn’t have to pull out the nitrile gloves he keeps in his bag. Just steps towards the head, grabs the antlers, slowly drags it. The first few gentle pulls leave behind a trail of slimed muscle and organ and the wriggling maggots. He’s slow and careful. Most times the sinew on the neck is strong enough to support the weight of the corpse.

Most times.

He’d cleared a possum off the ranger’s road, once. It’d been hit by someone the day before, and Evan didn’t want the detritivores to have the same fate, so he’d taken it upon himself to glove up and clear it off.

The tail he picked it up by disconnected from the rest of the corpse. It’d splattered all over his pants, and he had to finish his shift and bike home covered in blood and rot. It took three showers before he felt clean enough to touch anything in his house.

Anyway.

Today the nature spirits are being kind. The head stays firmly attached for the duration of the trip through the field. The entire dragging event is pretty uneventful, luckily.

A raven watched from a distance, some vultures drifted lazily overhead, but no signs of bears. He’s glad. Evan’s terrified of the pepper spray ever since Jared horsed around with it and ended up screaming in his kitchen. They’d been out of milk.

He ends up maybe a quarter mile off the path. He thinks it’s far enough, any hooligans aren’t going to wander this far off trail, the ranger station won’t get any complaints from the smell. 

Evan uses half his keychain’s hand sanitizer, rubbing it up and down his arms, and carries on.

 

* * *

 

“So what are we here for?” Connor asks. He’s got his black hoodie tied around his waist and his hair pulled up but he’s still looking hot and tired. Evan thinks its his medication, maybe.

“So, you know how there was, there was that skull we found? At Ozette?”

“The one that you blackmailed me to leave behind?”

“Uh, yeah. Well, it was because that was in a national  _ park,  _ and it’s illegal to take anything from the environment there, and I’d be a, I wouldn’t be a good park ranger if I just pick and choose who follows the rules, you know?” Connor’s silent, the gravel crunching under their feet. Evan continues. “Well, this is a national  _ forest _ , and even though you should leave things behind for the animals it’s not technically illegal?”

Evan steps off the path, and Connor huffs a noise of surprise. He beckons Connor to follow, and walks through the trees.

It’s a bit hard to find the right spot, because nature changes constantly, but he recognizes the split oak that he dragged the carcass under.

At this point, it’s all bones. The spring had been wet, and the summer warm, and the decomposers moved time along quickly. The elk is mostly all there-- Evan thinks one of the hind legs is gone, and there’s some ribs missing, but the rest is there. He gestures at it.

“Uh, here it is. Remember, do you remember the elk I told you about a few months ago? I dragged it off the path and, and I thought that maybe you would want its bones or something, cause you wanted the one at Ozette, and I was like ‘haha here’s a little gift for future Connor’ but I didn’t want to tell you about it in case something ate it? So, uh. Surprise?”

“Holy shit, Evan.” Connor crouches down, picks up a stick and pokes at the bones. “Are these like, clean?”

“Maybe a little dirty, like actual dirt on them dirty, but it should be fine?” Evan shuffles. “I have, I have gloves in my bag if you want them?”

Connor just picks up the elk skull by the antler, holds it up. “Nah.” He’s flipping and turning it to examine it, and he does look happy. It’s nice. He notices Evan staring, gives him a half grin, holds up the skull in front of his face. “Ooga booga.”

Evan laughs. He reaches down to pick up the jaw, flinches a bit as a discarded exoskeleton falls out of a nerve socket, runs his hands over the molars. He counts the points, looks at the wear, wiggles a front tooth experimentally. When he looks up, Connor’s got the skull balanced in the crook of a sycamore and is taking a photo on his phone.  He wonders briefly if Connor would appreciate the symbolism behind sycamores, before deciding he absolutely would.

“So, do you see how the, the tops of the branches are white?”

Connor hums a yes. He’s really leaning back, Evan notes. 

“There’s, these Native Americans had a legend? I was only nine or maybe ten when I heard this, so I don’t remember which tribe  _ exactly _ but I’m pretty sure it’s one of the Plains tribes, and. Uh. Anyway!” 

“There’s this boy, right? And he’s twelve, or maybe ten, so he can’t go on hunts or anything. But he really wants to. And one day, the hunters of the tribe go out to hunt-- obviously, they’re the, they’re the  _ hunters _ \-- but they go out, and the boy asks his mom, and she said no, but he went out and followed the men instead of doing chores anyway.

“So he gets to the end of the trail, and he realizes he doesn’t know where he is? And he’s panicking because he’s lost, and he, uh, just gets more lost, and eventually he ends up just in the middle of nowhere. And it’s fall I think? So there’s, there’s not a ton of water. And he’s lost and wandering for three days-- which, three days is the longest you can go without water, but I bet you already knew that ‘cause, everyone knows that-- but he’s wandering and crawling and looking for water on day three.

“Anyway, he’s at the top of this hill? And he sees there’s water down at the bottom. So he starts crawling down, and he’s like five feet from the water when he dies. Which is, kind of ironic and funny? Cause he was right there, and, you know. Funny.” Connor gives a half snort. “But his bones start growing into trees? And the trees are sycamores. That’s why they were called bone trees?  And sycamores, since they only grow near water, are a sign to find water? The moral is, do your chores, I think. And look for white bark,” Evan finishes. He tries to give a disarming grin, but it looks more like a grimace.

“Holy shit, Hansen. Where do you learn this shit?” Connor asks. He’s put away his phone and is holding the skull by the antler, near the burr. Evan shrugs.

“I was, I was a pretty lonely child?”

“Yeah, me too, but I didn’t learn fucked up myths at a tender age.” Connor scoffs, and Evan laughs. 

“Well, uh, every case is different? But I was, okay this is weird, I was thinking about the symbolism of the tree that’s someone who died young and that this elk was probably a subadult? And, well, we’re here?” He says, lamely. Connor raises an eyebrow. “I mean, like, there’s all this death and stuff around us, and we’re still alive? And I just, thought you taking the photo, I dunno--”

“Jesus, Ev, do you always think about death?” Connor asks, but it sounds more endeared than incredulous. 

“Well, not always, but when I’m standing on a dead elk the thought crosses my mind?”

“Fair enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> does anyone know the name of this legend??? has anyone even heard of this legend??? i learned it in wilderness camp years ago but i cant find anything online???
> 
> comments are super appreciated!!!


End file.
